With each passing season, I grow more wistful.  That’s just an pretentious way to admit I miss my mom. It doesn’t take much of a catalyst; the first cool days or the start of long dark nights will do.  Recently, it was the last-of-summer watermelon that made me sad.  Mom loved watermelon pickles, which she called Christmas pickles: Made properly, each petite triangle is bordered by a tinge of green from the rind and a hint of red from the fruit.  And if that isn’t reason enough to sing out Jingle Bells, the spices tucked into every jar are cinnamon and clove; making each bite a harbinger of Yuletide.